Cardiff City v Huddersfield as a top tier fixture lacks a bit of credibility. The Terriers may be in their second season in the Premier League and we’ve been flirting with the big time for a while now but the suspicion remains that both teams would be a excellent answer in a future ‘Pointless’ round based on all time PL teams, perhaps recording a point or two more than Oldham, Barnsley and Bradford. After all in the public consciousness our teams are to the Premier League what Colin Baker and Sylvester McCoy are to Doctor Who. We are the David Niven and George Lazenby of the James Bond franchise. We are the third man on the moon.
It’s approaching 100 years since our elevation to the old Division One. Elected into the Football League in 1920, The Bluebirds were promoted the following season where they joined The Terriers who were at the peak of their powers, becoming the first team to win three successive league titles under Herbert Chapman and Cecil Potter at a time when all managers were called either Herbert or Cecil and every first team squad contained a minimum of two Alfs, three Franks and a Reg. In the early years all teams played in contrasting shades of sepia (a confusing situation only resolved with the advent of colour TV in the sixties) the entire crowd wore flat caps - even the ladies - and smoked full strength Capstans. Boys wore bobble hats knitted by their mums and swung their balsa wood rattles with gay abandon. And all goalies were rubbish.
Huddersfield’s heyday was after ‘The War To End All Wars’ and proceeded ‘Peace in our time’. Between 1922-38 they finished in the top three on eight occasions and were FA Cup finalists five times. In the post-depression, inter-war years football and trips to the movies allowed a brief respite from austerity. 1927 was of course a huge year in popular culture, as Cardiff City’s era-defining FA Cup triumph was conjoined in the public consciousness with the release of the first ‘Talkie’. The nation took solace from fears over global instability and the rise of populist fascism by following the Bluebirds and watching Laurel and Hardy whose latest biopic has just been released. So, ‘Plus ca change’ as we say in Tremorfa.
Huddersfield’s lack of success since the 1950’s mirrors our fall from grace and it’s fair to say that both teams’ promotion to the Premier League were very much under the radar. Huddersfield’s elevation and subsequent survival last season is testament to the skill of manager David Wagner, a former assistant to Jurgen Klopp at Borrusia Dortmund, who pulled off a feat described by The Guardian at the time as ‘the Premier League’s greatest survival story’. Survival by either team this campaign will surely test that claim.
The lack of any significant activity in the January transfer window is worrying and Warnock is sounding increasingly frustrated as the month goes on. This is more than a little concerning as our first team squad is thin as the manager’s skin after a failed transfer bid, and the need for a ‘marquee’ signing to steady the fans’ nerves and revitalise the team is becoming desperate.
Amongst my favourite medieval proverbs (well we all have one I’m sure…) is the one about trying to make ‘a silk purse out of a sow’s ear’ ie. fashioning something beautiful from poor materials. Well this was a sow’s ear of a game and this will be a short report.
When the team with the lowest points tally and goals scored visit a team which has managed just six first half goals all season and are yet to take a first half lead in any game, in the rerun of a fixture that produced a stalemate earlier in the season, it’s understandable that expectations might be modest. Still, with the official attendance put at 30,725 one might reasonably expect a contest of sorts. Nah.
The game showed some early promise, the opposition in their ‘gilet jaunes’ radioactive lime green strip looking more like a protest movement, albeit one with no organisational sense or obvious plan. The on-loan Jason Puncheon threatened around the edge of the box and for the Bluebirds the marauding Mendez-Laing forced a rash challenge from the opposition left back, resulting in an early caution.
For all their commitment, both sides lacked quality in possession and any breakaways were frenetic and directionless. The teams seemed trapped in a midfield muddle where The Terriers were winning the battle but were unable to convert their advantage into any goal-scoring opportunities. The game was providing plenty of evidence for the prosecution in the assertion that neither team has the right to be playing at this level. And certainly the notion that they might currently be capable of cutting it against the likes of Bournemouth and Brighton, let alone the top four (Liverpool, Man City, Spurs and potentially Man Utd) is fanciful at best.
At half time we took some consolation from the fact that 70% of our goals have been scored in the second half; this was little more than a desperate quantum of solace. Match stats are often misleading but the stark truth of recording a paltry three shots in the entire game with not one on target, and conceding more than 60% possession against the league’s whipping boys is damming.
After 70 minutes I realised I hadn’t found it necessary to make a single second half note. After a rash of substitutions I finally shook my redundant right thumb out of its torpor to record a three-at-the-back transition, and in doing so missed the only incident of note in the entire game! I looked up to see the shambolic Lee Mason point to the spot, only to be persuaded to consult with his linesman who adjudged that full back Bennet was more sinned-against than sinning.
I haven’t seen the footage as I had no intention of waiting around to catch the ‘and finally’ MOTD wrap-up and confirmation from the studio guests of the hopelessness of our cause - I don’t sleep well at the best of times - but communications between the ref and his assistants were bewildering all afternoon with the erratic Mason either overruling his assistants at throw-ins or deferring to them when better placed. Certainly for the penalty decision he appeared to be a lot closer to the action than the linesman.
Today’s game gave us the opportunity to take the temperature and give a realistic prognosis of our chances. In a sketch from Laurel and Hardy’s ‘Sons Of The Desert’ Ollie is unwell in bed but fortunately Stan is around to help:
Ollie: You’d better take my temperature…get that thermometer.
Stan: The what?
Ollie: Thermometer! You’ll find it on the shelf.
(Stan places the thermometer in Ollie’s mouth and starts to take his pulse)
Ollie: Well, what does it say?
Stan: Wet and windy
Turbulent times ahead at The Cardiff City Stadium
No comments:
Post a Comment